


Lay Me Down

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (Very) Mild Alcohol Use, Memories of Trauma Implied, Mentions of bereavement, Multi, Neglect Implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: The boys settle down with their head in their partner's lap, and each is considered for the things that made him who he is.





	1. Noctis Lucis Caelum

Legs swinging limply in a breeze, your feet were hanging in the cool air that ghosted the water’s surface. It was so quiet. Peaceful. Nothing but the sounds of the waves lapping at the jetty, a rare and rousing birdsong, and your own sigh of satisfaction. Perfect. It was suddenly worth the long drive. His driving skills had left something to be desired, stretching seconds into minutes as you kept a fierce grip on your seat. You were sure your eye had twitched.

For now, you were basking in the silken sheets of a hushed lakeside. Nothing but the warmth of the sun on your back, the clear scent of fresh water and the weightlessness of momentary freedom.

That was, until his head thumped into your lap with an exasperated huff.

Eyebrows raised, you tilted your gaze down to him. Under the sooty wisps, dark brows were drawn into a frown. His pale lips were pressed together. You tilted your head, searching the blue of his eyes.

“I told you-.”

“You told me to check before we came, I know,” he sighed in defeat. You’d been on trips together before, and fishing was always a pivotal activity. To be honest, it was hard to tempt him into anything else. Arriving just after the season ended pulled the plug on his beloved plans.

He looked up at you. The blue of his eyes usually shimmered with depth, passion swimming through them in shoals. They’d gone still and hard. It was the same look that was caused by the days you’d taken this trip to escape. Your eyes dropped from his, catching on his mouth. His bottom lip was pushed out a fraction. The Crown Prince of Lucis was pouting in your lap. You had to fight the snicker, but he caught the smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just,” you began, wondering if the fondness you felt could pour from your eyes and wash the offended look from his features. “You’re like a kid. Next thing you know, you’ll be throwing a tantrum and begging for an ice cream.”

He frowned, mouth opening to launch an argument. He thought better of it. You’d already been right once today. Proving your point now would be nothing short of stupidity, on his part. A part of you was disappointed that he hadn’t taken the bait. He pieced together a plan; something to fill the next few days now that they’d been gutted and cleaned.

His grip on thought began to slip when your fingers started to play with the inky mess of his hair. As he stared up at the bright blue sky, it darkened and swirled with every touch until it was familiar.

Until ragged, hiccupping cries rang on the walls. Until his sobs were hoarse from the screaming. Until his father opened the door for the third time that night, flooding the murky blue of his room with soft, aurous light.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, clambering into the bed that was far too big for so small a boy. Little pale hands reached out and fisted in his nightshirt. Cradled in Regis’ arms, and hushed with quiet reassurances, the shape of a snake with six arms and cruel eyes began to ebb from the room, disappearing into the shadows of familiar furniture.

“I’m here,” he breathed, gently caressing the storm from the starless night sky of his son’s hair. Every slow, steady motion stirred the oily stains of fear from the water and lulled him back to the soft blue, to sleep.


	2. Prompto

A child whizzed past on a bike, legs straight and feet up, eyes widened at the speed. You huffed a laugh and shook your head. The aroma of freshly mown grass and the popcorn stall by the fountain was heavy in light, clear air. Daisies and buttercups, cut short and too early, were strewn around the lawns and spilling onto the paths. Spring was most definitely here.

Plucking the empty slushie cup from your hand and setting it down beneath the bench, he sighed in utter satisfaction and plonked his head into your lap. He settled in with a brief wriggle and a broad grin. You raised an eyebrow when he looked up at you, electric eyes sparking with a contented mischief.

“You, Prompto Argentum, are an utter child.”

He thought for a moment before shrugging and sticking out his tongue.

“Yeah,” he sang an agreement before nestling into your lap. “I pretty much am.”

You smiled at the mess he was making of his hair. The bright blond style had been thrown into chaos by his incessant fidgeting. Your head was shaking before you could stop it.

“Y-you don’t mind, do you?” he asked, suddenly nervous.

Apprehension squeezed his throat and shook his voice. There was a familiar fear in his eyes. It flashed through them on special occasions. When his hand had first brushed yours, when his lips had made their debut on your mouth, when he’d first uttered three specific words to you in a fit of passion. It was a tendril of plasma that stretched between moments. Between going out on a limb and being caught before he fell. It was the fear of rejection. No matter how many times you squeezed his hand, or kissed him back, or promised those words to him, it was still there. He’d never shake it.

It was the one remnant of his childhood he never managed to outgrow.

He’d been so alone, for so long. Affection came naturally to him. Every featherlight fingertip left wildflowers blooming and tickling in your skin. The soft gazes and intent curiosity could cup your cheeks from across a room. How was he so generous and gifted in giving something he’d never received?

“Of course not,” you smiled gently.

Relief pulled a crooked grin onto his face. Your fingers couldn’t resist his hair anymore, running through the fine paleness of it. His eyes fluttered shut. You twirled a lock around your finger, watching it glint with silver and gold in the sunshine. Every moment he spent bathing in the warmth of the afternoon, the sun and your comfort, helped soft peonies bloom in his cheeks. This was new to him. His freckles seemed to colour as time drew by, shining boldly and proud, dusting his features with stars. When he opened his eyes and mused over a cloudless blue, you only had one question in mind.

Did his eyes reflect the sky, or was it the other way around?


	3. Ignis

Your stomach and head were heavy, for all the right reasons. An impeccable meal at the Mother of Pearl, one stunningly aurous sunset drive through the soft heat of a Leiden evening and eventually quiet. Comfort. The familiar planes and sounds of your apartment. However tonight there was another element in your midst; wine. A fine-boned, dry Duscaean white had started it all. After a red you think you bought in Lestallum, you were both nothing short of merry.

Tonight, one Royal Advisor, Ignis Scientia, was yours and yours alone.

His cheeks had flushed a delicate pink that only made his eyes greener. The perfectly styled hair been loosened by the breeze of a fast drive back to Insomnia. He was never careless; he knew both his and the car’s capabilities. Sometimes you could see the purr of the engine running a sly finger over his pulse, along his jaw and brushing his lips apart. He had an intimacy with cars that almost made you jealous.

Slumped on the couch and feeling the heat alcohol threw into your cheeks, you turned your focus to him. He smiled loosely, breathing a laugh when he saw your head spin and bob from the weight of the wine.

“I think we’ve had quite enough for one night,” he mumbled, frowning at the empty glass in his hand. “Don’t you?”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Mr Scientia,” you nodded. The dizziness made the room swivel on it’s axis a little. You tried to shake it from your head, but only made it worse. “Any more would be… irresponsible.”

“One could say imprudent.”

“Rash.”

“Positively devil-may-care,” he smiled graciously, reaching out for your glass. It took more effort to hand it to him than it should’ve. Lining it up with his delicate fingers had been a challenge.

Still, once you were both sure he had a firm grasp on it, he stood and whisked them away to the kitchen. You couldn’t quite take your eyes off him. Not with the way his shoulders looked in that loosened dress shirt. Underneath was a toned back, dusted with rare freckles, that put sculptures to shame.

You stirred from your slipping mind when he reappeared in the room. He was mussed and flushed; it was a good look on him. Sharp features softened by a casual air that only alcohol could give him. He walked back to the couch with his hands on his hips, looking all too graceful for someone with a bottle of wine in his belly.

He settled down with a ragged sigh and let his head rest on the back of the couch.

Still caught on the thought of his back and wondering how your hands would look on it when you offered to relieve yet more of his tension, you’d begun to glare at the coffee table. He’d probably accept, especially in this state. There’s no reason he-.

A foreign weight in your lap made you jump. There he was, eyes closed in momentary bliss before searching your features.

A wisp of hair caught on his eyelashes, pulling him into a momentary pout. He blew at it, but it didn’t budge. You laughed quietly and brushed it aside. It was so soft, you weren’t entirely sure you’d touched it. It was still stray from the rest, so you combed it into the tawny silk of his hair. For all the torture he put it through, styling it mercilessly and throwing enough product into it to hold it just so, it was so impossibly soft. It was as if he’d kept the innocent and fragile locks of his childhood.

He caught the smile pulling at the corners of your lips and wore a smirk to deliver his words.

“I amuse you?”

You shook your head, then nodded. “You do. You’re like a child.”

He considered before responding.

“An adult is simply a child with experience.”

You mulled over his words, fingertips running circles in wheaten locks. His fingers intertwined with your free hand, brushing your knuckles against his lips and resting it on his chest. His heart was steady. Thoughts washed to you in the tide of his breathing.

How much of a childhood had he been allowed? How long was he given until a pile of books and obligations were dumped in scrawny arms? For how many years had the child in him been buried under the tombstone of advisor.

The softness of youth had been stolen from him, stirred away like the cream of espresso. Cut short, cooled and watered down into the long, slow drink of duty.

Yet here he was. Lying in your lap, watching you with eyes as lush as spring’s first grass, sharp features blurred by the looseness of wine, and glowing with soft adoration.


	4. Gladiolus

Eyes chewing through the print, you devoured his newest recommendation at a ravenous pace. Judging by the lack of dogeared pages, it must’ve been good. He’d finished it in a matter of days, in the grip of passion and the need for escape. You’d lost him to it. Temporarily.

Now it was your turn, and you completely forgave him. It was stunning.

Fixed on the page, you’d heard him try to sneak back into the apartment, silencing heavy footsteps, groaning a curse through his teeth when he stubbed his toe. His brows drew together at the foreign brightness lining the bedroom door. You heard the door creak open a little more, a huffed laugh and eventually the sputtering start of the shower.

Eight pages later and the mattress dipped at your side. You could smell him. Washed of the scent of leather, of sweat; he smelled like sea salt and sage. Bittersweet. He read a few lines and remembered the fervour of those pages. They’d burned under his gaze, threatening to disappear if he didn’t read them fast enough. There was a pull to those words, a draw to the horizon and the unknown beyond. The curling of his mouth in your peripheral made you hunch up, clutching the book with a white-knuckled grip. He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he whispered hoarsely. It took you a moment to give your muted reply.

“Won’t.”

He settled onto his back, stroking the back of his finger against your leg. Heavy sighs were breathed, occasional pillows were plumped and, another fourteen pages in, you felt a pair of amber eyes watching you. Undeterred by your complete focus and, frankly, ignorance, he made a decision.

Something tugged at the top of the book, a soft warning before pulling more insistently and maintaining that force. Your grip tightened, mind racing to take in the rest of the page before it was bound to be wrenched away. He waited, pinching the centrefold between a tanned finger and thumb you’d come to know well these past few nights. When you’d finally run out of words, your hold loosened. He muttered a ‘thank you’ and propped the book on his chest, dog-earing the page and deserting your new drug of choice on his bedside table.

You whimpered, gazing longingly at the paper that should’ve been under your fingertips, prose that should’ve been dripping into your mind. He leant over you, his mere presence demanding your attention. Deep eyes searched your features, onyx set in chestnut rings, reading you with ease. They moved slower than usual in their sunken surroundings. It had been a tough week for Noctis; a few too many formal events that left him drained and doubting himself. There had been a lot of late nights for Gladio, who stayed behind to smooth his nerves with a joke or obscenity about some foreign dignitary with ‘the whole damn tree up their ass’. A lot of crawling into an empty bed for you.

The room went dark with a click of finality. Warm lips pressed to your forehead.

“Go to sleep.”

He turned onto his side, facing away from you and settled with another deep breath. Your hands were already fisting in the sheets, only to release them, over and over again. Folding them, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. They needed something fine. Something to move at your whim. They needed the book. He heard.

He propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at you. He huffed, shuffled, then dropped his head into your lap with a weighty conclusion. Rolling his shoulders, he settled in. The hand that had slid out from underneath him was taken up, fingers playing with yours in the dark. He could still hear the other hand scratching at the sheets. Until it shot to your light switch.

“Can I at least finish the chapter?”

Eyes scrunched closed, he shook his head gently, breathing out hard through his nose.

“After you’ve slept.”

“I don’t wanna wait till tomorrow!” You groaned, sounding far more desperate than you’d meant to.

“It’s already tomorrow,” he said flatly, intertwining his fingers with yours. He opened bleary eyes again to warm you with his gaze. There was something so solid, so steadfast to it. Seeing the darkening around his eyes, you felt a pang of regret for keeping him up. “You’re like a kid, you know that?”

“Says the one with his head in my lap.”

“Shh,” he hushed, a tired smile spreading plump, chapped lips. Your free and fidgeting hand found sanctuary in the dark thicket of his hair.

Within moments, he was heavier. Adam’s apple bobbing under unkempt stubble, eyes falling shut and lips parting in comfort. In bliss.

He remembered the feeling.

Long, soft fingers carding through his hair and smoothing everything over. Why wasn’t he home yet? What had happened? What had gone wrong? He couldn’t be… No. They’d have heard. The King’s death would’ve been broadcast the second the dust settled. His father’s obituary would be a silent undertone. The Shield of the King would be dead, because no King fell unless their Shield fell first. Clarus had insisted he stay behind. The journey to Tenebrae, whilst providing a good bonding opportunity with his future liege, would be long. He was of better use here. He could help his ailing mother. He could take care of his sister.

He could be a man, he could, just until his father came back and held them close again.

His mother’s fingers stopped moving long before his father returned.

You didn’t want to turn off the light. In your lap was man who had been trained to kill since he was a boy. The single most trusting soul you’d ever met, who had been taught to trust no one and nothing. If it crossed his path, it was going to move. If it broke his stride, it was going run. If it so much as twitched at Noctis, it was going to meet him. And here he was, soft and silent in the blissful silks of sleep.


End file.
